Classic Poem

Though Beautie be the Marke of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the World can praise too much,
Yet is't your vertue now I raise.

A vertue, like Allay, so gone
Throughout your forme; as though that move,
And draw, and conquer all mens love,
This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet: because
'Tis of your selfe, and that you use
The noblest freedome, not to chuse
Against or Faith, or honours lawes.

But who should lesse expect from you,
In whom alone love lives agen?
By whom he is restor'd to men:
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

His falling Temples you have rear'd,
The withered Garlands tane away;
His Altars kept from the Decay,
That envie wish'd, and Nature fear'd.

And on them burne so chaste a flame,
With so much Loyalties expence
As Love t'aquit such excellence
Is gone himselfe into your Name.

And you are he: the Dietie
To whom all Lovers are design'd;
That would their betters object find:
Among which faithful troope am I.

Who as an off-spring at your shrine,
Have sung this Hymne, and here intreat
One sparke of your Diviner heat
To light upon a Love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appeare, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t'adore in you
What I, in her, am grievd to want.